“Nonsense!” he boomed. “It’s never been easier to get in. You haven’t got a criminal record have you, mate?”

No. I suppose that’s me out.

It was a night where unruly kids, sulky teenagers and aged aunts were treated to a strange musical mix of Perry Como, Iron Maiden, the big band sounds of Glenn Miller, Beyoncé and Bucks Fizz.

The Bucks Fizz melody was a body blow, I fear, for those many pensioners present. They’d lived through a world war and deserved better than Land Of Make Believe.

In the end, the DJ gave up trying to appease the diverse musical tastes and simply played Glenn Miller very, very loudly. Those trombones made the walls shake.

They made the mistake of inviting Barry, the milkman with new dentures and a sports car, AND his wife who walked out on him for a younger man with his own teeth.

“What’s Barry doing here?” she demanded in a whisper, eyes blazing, after spying her spurned husband.

He was eating a quiche, which was a surprise because he likes to show off his new teeth by tackling foods he can really get his, er, teeth into.

When it comes to nougat, he’s a showman.

His ex-wife spent the entire evening spitting venom.

“I was a widow to that milk round,” she claimed, which is somewhat puzzling when you think most milkmen are finished by 9am.

If your husband says he’s taking the float out at 10 o’clock at night, you’ve every reason to be suspicious – unless he’s the slowest milkman in the west.

She objected to Barry using the float as a family car, which isn’t unreasonable. It took them three days to get to a caravan site in Rhyl. And the kids got sick during the mammoth journey after gorging themselves on yoghurts from the freezer.

Mind you, it could’ve been worse. Julie’s Italian uncle Franco went everywhere in his ice-cream van. The family never forgave him for arriving at his father’s funeral with the musical score from Love Story chiming loudly.

Actually, the last thing he would’ve wanted was Frank selling Mr Whippy’s to kids at the crematorium, which is what happened.

Sorry. I’ve gone off on something of a tangent.

At the party, I managed to make a sharp exit from the not-so-merry divorcee and walked straight into Barry, who wants a young, slim, female companion to flaunt in front of his ex-wife, but, if pushed, would settle for an old fat one, he confided.

To that end, he’s become a bell-ringer at our parish church, which suits him down to the ground because he’s got tinnitus anyway.

Uncle Bill, who used to be a Butlins redcoat, was the usual life and soul of the party, which I find irksome.

“Tell you what, Mike,” he roared, “you can take the man out of Butlins, but you can’t take Butlins out of the man.”

Behind the relentless bonhomie there lurked a tragic figure, however.

When Bill’s wife finally got fed up with the endless round of impromptu nobbly knees competitions, we finally saw the tears of a clown.

Still, he was back on form at last weekend’s family bash,.

“Shall we play hide and seek, kids?” he slurred above the cheers of the tots. “See if you can be as good at hide and seek as my wife,” he chided, his voice breaking with emotion. “She hid on Christmas Eve 1999 after what I thought was 20 bloody years of a happy marriage, and I still haven’t found her.”

My niece broke the uncomfortable silence that followed.

“Have you tried looking in Coseley, Uncle Bill? Dad says she’s hiding there with a man who works at a motorway service station.”